Fire in the Rain
by Violetvixen17
Summary: A young woman appears in London who may hold the key to a long buried Holmes family secret. Before Mycroft can act, Sherlock finds her first. A chain of events are set into motion that will alter the lives of not only the Holmes brothers, but John Watson and Gregory Lestrade as well. DI Lestrade/OC, Sherlock/John, Mycroft.
1. Prologue

"Sir? Anthea's brisk voice floated into the room, breaking Mycroft's train of thought. He sat back in his desk chair and looked at her quizzically.

"I left orders that I was not to be disturbed." Mycroft rubbed a hand over his forehead, and hoped to god that this interruption was not regarding his younger brother, as most unexpected news tended to be.

Anthea's voice was flat and efficient, not intimidated by her high office boss at all. "Yes, but this is regarding an earlier matter that you mentioned would take precedent over ordinary affairs."

Mycroft groaned inwardly, that sounded _exactly_ like a Sherlock problem. He checked his pocket watch and silently prayed that this would not involve needing to bail out his impudent younger sibling from yet another detention center. He hadn't had the problem lately due to Sherlock's friendship with a certain D.I. at Scotland yard, but Mycroft still never assumed anything when it came to his brother's ability to get himself (and often others) into trouble.

Mycroft sighed and then looked up at his assistant with a nod. Anthea was holding a thick manila folder, no emotion on her face, just a professional smile, it was one of the things Mycroft liked best about her. Other assistants hadn't lasted long in his employ when he'd grown irritated with their personal problems that they couldn't seem to leave in their homes. Anthea however was an exception, in fact she was so even tempered and efficient that he had no idea what her life consisted of outside of the offices.

"What's Sherlock done now?" He leaned back further in his chair, taking in the slight smirk that graced over his assistants face.

She handed the file over the desktop before she spoke. "It's not him this time, Sir."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow as she handed him the file. "Then for heaven's sake, what was so important?"

"It's_** her**_."

Mycroft fell back into his chair with a uncharacteristic flop, his eyes wide as he stared at the innocent looking file. Anthea's smile widened just a fraction as she took in the shocked expression that her boss seldom ever wore and though her own curiosity flared she forced herself not to show it.

"They've found her, Sir."

Mycroft paused for a moment, before opening the folder with a slight tremble in his hand. He stared down at the documents, but when he saw the corner of a photograph below he yanked it out impatiently. It was a still from one of their CC cameras, _she was here in London? _It waszoomed in on a figure in black coat walking out of Heathrow….. a figure with long dark curls that spilled over her coat collar.

"Oh for God's sake….." Mycroft murmured under his breath as he scrutinized every detail of that face…a face he was unsure even existed until now.

"Sir?" Anthea's voice interrupted his study and he looked up, slightly irritated. "Would you like any action taken regarding this?"

Mycroft lifted the photo again, staring hard at it as he answered.

"Yes...top priority surveillance immediately."

Anthea nodded and turned on her heel, walking silently from the room to relay the message to their operatives.

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh, still staring at the photograph intently, his next words spoken into the silence of his empty office.

"We cannot lose her again."

&^% ^&^

Charlotte trudged through the darkening London rain, juggling her umbrella and her duffel as best she could. The water came down hard, splashing up from the ground so that her shoes squelched with every step. The cold and wet had caused her to start shivering but she plodded on, looking over her shoulder every few feet. After some time she still did not see or sense anyone following her and slowed her walk.

Despite the awful weather and oncoming night, Charlotte still found that she liked London. The different climate, and city bustle all seemed to appeal to her. This was the first time she'd tried to flee over an ocean. Her incessant travels had carried her around both Americas over the last 10 years but strangely she'd never thought to jump the oceans to escape her pursuers. Perhaps it had been the initial fear that she'd never be able to obtain a passport unnoticed, or that the increased security in the American airports would cause her to be detained and found too quickly. But desperation caused equal measures and the last encounter she'd had with the agents had forced her hand.

Charlotte shivered as the memory flashed through her mind, her hand instinctively going to her throat to feel for the thin silver scar that would never let her forget that night. She kept it hidden under a scarf and the collar of her coat, but her fingers found it easily just the same. At the feel of the puckered line Charlotte instantly recalled the cold metal blade that the agent had held to the her throat as he demanded she tell him how she did it, she still could smell the stink of sweat and cologne that had radiated off him as he clutched at her, not listening to the shouts of his superior that he was not to damage her, she was to be apprehended alive at all costs…. But the man's eyes had been wild with desperation and he'd pressed the blade inward anyway hissing his threat into her ear.

_ "What good is it to you now? It won't save you, freak."_

A rumbling boom of thunder startled her from her reverie and she muttered a few curses as the rain thickened into a near blanket. She ducked under the awning of a tiny café and let her umbrella drop for a bit as she started at the nearly dark street. The lamps were on now and cars lazily drove by through the storm. Charlotte leaned back against the white brick and tipped the thick hood of her black wool coat back slightly, shaking the water from it. As she looked up, a black cab slowed to a stop on the other side of the street, and tall figure in a long dark coat leapt out of it. Her blood chilled instantly, they'd found her.

"No….not this fast…" Charlotte hissed under her breath, yanking her hood up to hide her face and fumbling with her umbrella quickly. Her skin prickled and she prepared to run as the man began striding across the street toward her, his head down.

Charlotte fumbled with the umbrella then swore, dropping the infernal thing and attempting to run. She heard a vague shout from the man as her sopping sneakers slapped against the sidewalk, right into a large pool of water from the awning runoff. The concrete rushed up to meet her and she felt a bloom of pain across her temple as she hit. Blackness swamped her vision before she could get up…normally she would have been searching her attackers mind for anything she could use. But the hit she'd taken was claiming her consciousness too quickly.

A deep baritone rumbled through her last moment before she blacked out.

"And here I thought I was going to be bored."


	2. Spark

_**AUTHORS Note: I am not British, nor am I a doctor, so please forgive any factual errors that may pop up. And if you are reading, I love reviews! They fan inspirations flames.**_

_**~Vix**_

Mycroft sat at his computer in the office, watching screens of surveillance footage closely. His building was quiet, not empty of course, as various agents and officials kept ungodly hours depending on their activities. But his section on the building was near empty at this time of night, many of his colleagues having left to attend to their families or whatever lives they led outside the posh walls. Mycroft envied them on rare occasions when the idea of returning to his richly decorated, yet still chilly home became unpleasant. But he'd always come to his senses, reminding himself of the statement he clung to in most of his personal life….that 'caring' was not an advantage. He'd lectured Sherlock on that fact last Christmas, when they'd thought that Adler woman dead, the first time.

Mycroft had believed his words then, as he'd watched his younger sibling hide the small flicker of human emotion that he'd allowed to creep up on him. He'd even offered the forbidden fruit of a nicotine fix to derail whatever tangent Sherlock's heart may have taken from its usual path of numbness. The truth had been that Mycroft had not wanted to lose the one person who understood his cold façade, despite their rivalry and bitter word battles Mycroft was often comforted that at least if he was an anomaly in the human race when it came to sentimental matters, he was not alone in his plight, that it was a family trait as it were.

But speaking of caring about something, Mycroft feared slightly what this whole scenario might evoke in him or his younger sibling if he sorted it all out. He'd ordered the extra surveillance, but the girl had appeared to slip through his web once she'd left the airport, there had been too long a lag between her photo on his desk and his order to watch. The day had passed and he'd yet to receive a hit on her face or any of the names/aliases he'd been told she used. He'd eventually taken matters into his own hands, which led him to the now, and explained why the older man was spending his late evening hours pouring over camera screens on his computer.

Finally he found what he was looking for. A street corner camera was quickly zoomed in on the figure walking through the pouring rain. He leaned forward as he watched her weave her way around the town, seemingly without direction. He noted as she turned onto a familiar street, switching to cameras that had been recently added to the area.

"Oh for heaven's sake…." He muttered a few choice expletives at the end of the sentence under his breath as he watched her stop under the café awning.

Mycroft didn't hide his annoyance at her location, and how on earth she ended up _there _of all of London to choose from, did she know? He'd been given no indication in the file or the reports that she had any idea…."But, then why _**there?"**_

He zoomed in on the camera, watching as she let the umbrella fall to her feet for a moment, and the unwieldy large duffel she'd been dragging as well. As he was alone in his office he allowed himself the luxury of drinking in the pale features that stared out at the street. She was completely unaware of being watched and his mouth pulled up at the corners when she shoved the large hood of her coat back to reveal a damp mane of dark curls. He wished at this angle he could get a better look at her eyes, but the camera's vision was already limited by the bad weather.

His small smile was instantly lost as her expression suddenly became one of terror and he noted the cab slowing on the other side of the street. He straightened in his chair in alarm as he watched her grab her bag and the umbrella once more, struggling with the cheap device for a moment in panic. He barely noticed the white knuckled grip on his chair arm as he watched her sprint from the man that approached her.

"Damn it all to hell!" Mycroft swore loudly as he watched her tumble forward, and fought the urge to jump up from his chair, as if he had any power to watch the scene unfolding in front of him. The strong jolt of his reaction but shocked and startled him, but he had no time to ponder that as he leaned closer to the screen, peering at the figure that rushed forward, the one that she had been so afraid of.

He paused the frame as the figure reached her stilling form on the ground. He reached into his pocket for his cell, preparing to have to text for any available security operatives in the area to assist. He knew she'd been chased for some time overseas, but he was not about to lose her to them now that he'd finally found her.

But then the figure crouched before her and turned his face so the camera could see him clearly and Mycroft flopped back against his chair for the second time that day, only this time in exasperated relief.

"I should have known you'd find each other first."

*************()*(*)(*()

0-0-0-0-

Greg Lestrade let out a long sigh, the breath rustling some of the reports on his desk as he leaned back away from his work. It was the first time he'd looked up in over an hour and he wasn't surprised to see the hallway outside his office window was now dark. He'd been the one to close the place lately, aside from the cleaning crew. It hadn't been intentional at first, as he'd started by telling himself that he really needed to pay more attention to the reports that kept piling up.

But it had been a few weeks now and his coworkers no longer even bothered to check in on him before leaving for the night, or turning off the lights in the main areas. And truth be told, Greg was glad that they'd stopped inquiring as to why he never seemed to want to go home to his flat, it saved him the excuses that he knew none of them really believed. Donovan and Anderson had meant well enough, inviting him out for dinner or drinks (albeit usually when Andersons' wife was out of town), Greg chuckled slightly at the memory that thought invoked. It had been the day when he'd met John Watson for the first time, limping along behind Sherlock at that pink woman's crime scene. After Sherlock's initial deduction, and Watson's confusion, Sherlock had vanished off into the night…leaving Watson to hitch a cab, Greg to try to make sense of the mess, and Donovan and Anderson having an all out verbal brawl downstairs over their relationship.

Greg wiped a hand over his face and began to tidy up his desk as he glanced at the clock, it was getting pretty damn late and he'd stalled as much as he could for the evening. It wasn't that he was a glutton for punishment, more than it was that he disliked trudging home to the cold empty flat that he'd moved into a few months ago, right after Corinne had given him the divorce papers. The thought alone twisted the ache in his chest slightly and Greg stretched in the chair before standing and reaching for his coat.

He moved out of his office and turned off the light, moving through the rest of the building in the semi darkness. He knew these hallways by heart, able to maneuver around desks and corners without thinking. Instead his thoughts flicked over how he'd been in such denial over the state of his marriage over the last few years. He'd blocked it out whenever Sherlock had deduced the evidence of Corinne's many affairs, not wanting to hear despite the fact that even he himself had known somewhere deep down that the spoiled blond would never have been satisfied with being a copper's wife. It didn't matter now as she had signed the papers happily, then announced that she was moving out and in with her current lover, the one Sherlock had announced at the Christmas get together last year…the damn athletic teacher.

Greg paused at the doors to the street, looking out at the rain that had been falling all day and showed no signs of stopping. He pulled the coat tighter around himself before venturing out, and jogging for his car in the lot round the back. It was fruitless, as by the time he sat in the drivers' seat, his hair and coat were quite damp. He fumbled for his keys to turn on the car's heater, hoping to chase away the cold. But as he pictured the dark empty flat he would come home to, the chill burrowed deeper into his bones and let out a broken sigh that rattled through his chest.

He was so lonely.

As if some unseen force had heard his silent plea, his mobile buzzed impatiently in his pocket.

Pulling it out, the small screen held a text alert from a blocked number.

_**Your assistance may be required tomorrow.**_

_** Further instructions will be forthcoming.**_

_** -MH**_

_**&(*&()&)&&(&(&)&&&)(**_

John Watson filled his mug and turned away from the counter, blowing slightly on the hot liquid as he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock had been at Bart's all afternoon, terrorizing Molly no doubt. John smirked to himself as he pictured it in his mind, poor Molly, but then again she'd brought it on herself by letting him know she had a fresh batch of corpses for him to experiment on. The girl seemed to be a glutton for Sherlock's verbal punishment and John often thought she had the tolerance of a saint.

He peered out into the living room as the door was kicked open rather more forcefully than usual and nearly dropped the mug to the floor at what he saw. Sherlock Holmes maneuvered through the doorway, carrying the limp form of a woman in his arms. At least it appeared to be a woman from John's first glance, what with the dark curls he glimpsed spilling out from a coat hood.

"Sherlock? Have you gone insane?" John sputtered, setting his mug down on the tabletop and advancing toward where his flat mate stood, still holding the girl in his arms as her wet clothes dripped onto the floor. "Who the hell is that?"

"No, and I don't know." Sherlock didn't offer anymore explanation as he moved to settle the woman on the sofa.

"All right then, well I assume either a date or a client…" John gestured at the girl. "But you don't do _dates,_ and she's bloody unconscious!" John huffed in exasperation as his medical instincts took over and he bent over the girl to check her over.

"Keen observation John." Sherlock grumbled, moving away to divest himself of his wet coat and scarf. His sharp gaze watched carefully as John gently moved the hood of the woman's jacket away from her face and hissed slightly as he saw the bump that was rapidly forming on the side of her head.

"Damn." John muttered as he checked the girls' pulse, then jumped back to stride toward the kitchen. "Unconscious, bad knock on the head ...She might have a concussion Sherlock! You better start talking, right now!"

Sherlock heard the sound of John grabbing ice from the freezer and stepped closer to peer down into the pale face of the girl who had literally just landed on their doorstep. His mind immediately began observing and cataloging all the details of her. Her clothes and shoes were soaked, she'd out in the rain most of the day then… her skin was quite pale, much like his own, the duffel bag she'd been carrying that he'd left downstairs by the door had been fairly heavy stating she was travelling, and not just for a short holiday.

"You can deduce her once she's awake, here!" John interrupted, thrusting a dishcloth full of ice into his hands. "Hold that on her head while I get all these wet things off." John commanded, the army doctor suddenly right there in the forefront.

Sherlock grimaced slightly at being given orders, but when it came to taking care of others he'd learned over the years that John Watson didn't mess around, and would never take a "no" from him when it came to caring for another's well being. It was one of the things that had puzzled Sherlock in the beginning, but he'd come to accept and even cherish about his friend.

John immediately set to work removing the girl's wet sneakers. "So are you going to tell me why we have a girl on our sofa tonight, or should I start guessing?"

Sherlock crouched and set the ice pack against the girl's head scrape. "Because she managed to injure herself right in front of our door as I was arriving home."

"She did?" John moved to set the wet shoes near the fireplace to dry then sauntered back.

"Yes, I got out of the cab and she was by the café downstairs…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as he replayed the scene in his minds eye. She'd looked up at him and even through the rain he'd happened to see her expression of terror. She'd fumbled with her umbrella then attempted to run. He'd called out, but she had already begun to fall as he sprinted across the street.

"She was afraid of me." He murmured, puzzled.

"Yes, well you can be a bit intimidating at times."

Sherlock flashed his friend an annoyed glance. "I was on the other side of the street, she tried to run and fell. I didn't see what she hit, but from the angle of her fall I'm guessing the stairs."

"We should probably call for an ambulance Sherlock…a concussion could be serious."

"No!" Sherlock's tone was sharp and John blinked at him in confusion.

"Why the hell not?" John's gaze flashed an angry blue, done with the vague answers.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, still holding the icepack to the girl's temple. He then began to speak rapidly, lost in what John had come to refer to as 'deduction thought'.

"She's phobic about being chased, we know that much from her reaction to a stranger getting out of a cabin and merely walking in her direction. I was wearing all black; most likely she mistook it for a uniform. Whoever she is, she will most likely be distrusting of policeman, doctors, anyone in uniform. She could be a fugitive, but it's doubtful a violent one as her expression was fear and panic versus anger. She made no move to reach for a weapon of any kind, only to run."

John listened, getting it for the most part, but he was still greatly concerned as a head injury was nothing to trifle with. He hadn't seen how she hit or how hard, and without being able to ask her questions, or have any access to equipment, he had no way of knowing if her injuries were merely a knock to the head or a full blown brain injury.

"Sherlock, that makes sense, but a concussion can be serious. She could have any number of symptoms; head wounds can be nasty and deceiving in their appearance. It doesn't look too bad, but she could have brain hemorrhage, skull fracture, any number of injuries and without proper equipment I can't make a guess to treat her."

"Did you have proper equipment in the desert John?" Sherlock retorted, knowing that John disliked it immensely whenever his medical skills were challenged,

John bristled, knowing that his flat mate was playing him, but set his jaw anyway.

"No."

"Then do whatever you did back there when you suspected a concussion."

"It's not that simple, and you know it. I would have killed to have had access to equipment when other soldiers' got injured. I will not be bullied or manipulated into playing God with another life…not when I have the tools so close."

Sherlock heaved a sigh, knowing that this battle was about to be lost when a soft moan interrupted them both. Sherlock jerked the ice away from her face immediately, staring at her as her eyelashes fluttered slowly against pale cheeks.

"Keep the ice on." John directed, leaning over to watch as the girl came to… her lids slowly rising to reveal blue eyes, and John suddenly felt a shiver chase down his back as he stared into the unfamiliar face. Despite his medical instinct he flicked a nervous look toward Sherlock who was watching intently as well…..

….with the eyes the exact same shade of ice blue.


	3. Introductions

Mycroft immediately began typing a text to his brother, even as he gathered up all the paperwork on his desk and began shoving it into a briefcase with his free hand.

**Don't frighten her.**

**-MH**

There was no response, and Mycroft only prayed that he wasn't already too late. He hoped that Sherlock's' curiosity and John's medical skills would keep the girl put for now, at least until he could make it over there to investigate himself. He'd hoped to keep tabs on her from afar for a bit to avoid conflict or terrifying her right off the bat. But clearly fate did not agree with his plans, as it had conveniently led her directly to Sherlock, forcing his hand as it were.

Mycroft snapped his briefcase and buttoned his suit jacket back up, reaching for his phone once again. This time before typing out a second text to Sherlock, which he doubted would be read either…he pulled up a different number. He would need help to contain this, to keep it out of the papers, and to protect both his brother, the doctor, that landlady that Sherlock seemed so annoyed with (yet nearly killed a man for threatening), and the girl herself. He wondered what her response would be to Sherlock and John; she had seemed in terror as Sherlock had approached her on the camera feed. Mycroft grimaced slightly at the image, but he had a sense that her fear was more rooted in her assumption that Sherlock's black coat and attire was that of one of the men that chased her all over America for nearly a decade.

He shook his head trying to focus his thoughts as they raced all over, and concentrated on the text he typed out. He'd added the D.I's number as a precaution, knowing that Lestrade was one of the only law enforcement that his brother tolerated at all. He'd observed the Inspector at the crime scenes many times, and had often commended the man silently on his patience. He'd seen the fury in the man's face ebb and flow many times as Sherlock unleashed his verbal abuse (which normally was not really meant as actual harm, but Sherlock's mind often was moving too fast to know the venom with which his words were received). He knew that Sherlock trusted the D.I., so he would naturally be the one to call, as John knew the man as well. He'd be the least likely to alarm the men and hopefully could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.

He glanced at the hour and realized just how late it was, so he issued a warning about the next day…hoping that he'd be able to set up her safety for the next 8 hours. He knew his cryptic order would likely be chastised, but that was the way of things and he stuffed the phone in his pocket before grabbing his things and heading out for the lobby to awaken his driver, who was no doubt nodding on the sofa in the lounge. His deduction was right of course, but the man jumped up quickly despite his disorientation when he heard Mycroft's hurried steps echo in the corridor.

"Leaving for the night Sir?"

"Yes, quickly please."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Home then?"  
"No…I need to make a stop first." Mycroft quickly moved behind the man as they strode toward the black sedan. "Baker Street and hurry."

&*)(*&)*&*&^&^%&^%

Charlotte heard them bickering as she came to. Even through the dull throbbing ache in her head she heard the two voices, one soft and gentle, the other deep and rumbling. Her heart thudded nervously as she assumed that she'd been caught, but their words didn't sound like anything she'd ever heard from an agent. They were arguing about her injury from the sound of it, and most agents wouldn't care about something as simple as her falling or being knocked out. Hell, she'd been knocked out once or twice by a few of them over the years on purpose.

She blinked slowly once, her eyes focusing on the patterned wallpaper, and what looked like a painted…smiley face? She tried to shift, but the pain bloomed in her head and before she realized it, she let out a soft groan and closed her eyes once more. The voices stopped instantly and the cold against her temple was yanked away, leaving just the ache behind. She grimaced and risked another look.

Now her view of the room was obscured by a concerned face, and Charlotte felt the cold pack return to her head. The ice numbed the pain slightly and gave her more leave to focus her gaze on the man. Sandy hair framed a kind face, a forehead creased with concern as he stared back at her. Even without using her skills, she knew that this was no agent, and some of the tension relaxed from her body. She sighed slightly and met the man's eyes, the deep dark blue widening as their gazes locked. She watched the change in his expression as he focused in on her eyes. It wasn't a new thing for a person to be unnerved by their odd color, she'd heard that most of her life… and yet this man seemed to have a slightly different reaction. He stared intently for a moment, swallowed nervously, breaking their connection to glance to his right.

"Sherlock…..do you see that?" He stammered, and she placed his voice as the softer one she'd heard.

"Curious!" the deeper voice rumbled softly near her ear, and Charlotte tried to turn her head to look at its owner, but the dishtowel obscured her vision.

The blond man seemed to regain his composure and reached to take her pulse. On instinct, Charlotte yanked her hand away before he could touch her. She looked back toward him warily and saw what looked like genuine confusion dance across his features and even a hint of rejection.

"I…I'm sorry." She whispered, suddenly feeling too vulnerable laying there while the two men stared at her. She struggled to raise herself into a sitting position, placing her own hand over the one that still held the ice to her head to take it over. She felt the cool fingers slide out from under her own quickly, almost as fast as she'd yanked her hand from the other man's touch.

"Easy now….don't rush it." The blond spoke again, reaching out as if to help steady her as she sat up. His hands stopped just short of her shoulders as he remembered her reaction to his first touch, and he flexed his hands for a moment confused, then dropped them back down at his sides.

Charlotte pressed the ice pack against the ache in her temple and closed her eyes again for a moment, attempting to focus. She needed to work through the pain to use her skill and it took a moment of deep breaths for her to focus beyond the throbbing. But once she concentrated, she began to hear them in her mind. Her gift hummed to life and she focused in on the voices that now buzzed loudly, flexing the part of her mind like a sore muscle until she could make out the words.

The softer voice was clear first as his thoughts spoke slower and in a much more orderly fashion than the loud, fast rambling that emanated from his companion. Charlotte wrinkled her forehead as she tried to listen to them both, keeping her eyes shut.

_Leave it to my flat mate to come across such a pretty thing by accident_…..….._could have a concussion still…. No way to be sure without taking her to the hospital….know he said she would be scared of that….but not going to chance it with a head injury…. Why is she keeping her eyes closed…..is she going to lose consciousness again?….._

"No…I'm awake." She answered aloud, without thinking and relaxed her face slightly, opening one eye to look at the blond man who she matched with the mental worrying. His eyes widened in shock as she heard him reel from her answering a question he hadn't spoken aloud.

"I didn't say that…out loud." He stammered.

She smirked slightly and opened her other eye to get a better look at the other man, who was now standing back by the door. She assumed he belonged to the other voice, the deep baritone that spoke so fast she almost couldn't understand it as it raced through her head.

_ …..what is she talking about? ….doesn't look more than 30 years….non smoker….never married, no ring mark on her finger…pale skin, doesn't go out much or hales from a colder climate….bag was heavy, most likely travelling….panicked at a stranger approaching her on the street….didn't want John to touch her….possible abuse in her background from a male figure….couldn't be her father as John isn't much older….more likely had something to do with medical history_….

Charlotte grimaced as she took in the taller man, relaxing her mind to let the speedy rumble of his thoughts quiet in her head. It was too much and she could tell that he wasn't going to stop anytime soon. She instead focused on his details; he was tall, pale like her, his dark hair still damp and curling up against his forehead. He returned her stare as she took in his suit slacks and blue buttoned shirt. But it was his eyes that caught her attention more than anything, even more than the odd train of his thoughts.

The other man picked up on it immediately.

"Sherlock! Do you see what I mean? She has the same…"

"1 in six individuals are born with blue eyes John, it's not that uncommon!" He snapped.

"But they don't…I mean…she…"

"Yes I see the similarity."

Charlotte closed her eyes and let out a sigh as the throb in her head picked up in intensity. She let out a quiet curse under her breath and she heard the shorter man chuckle at the vulgar word.

"Not funny…hurts." She murmured, slowly opening her eyes again to see him advancing on her, his movements slow…like one would approach a cornered animal.

"May I?" He asked this time as he gestured at her head. "I'm a doctor."

Charlotte cringed at the word before she could stop herself. She'd experienced all manners of hell at the hands of those who had called themselves 'doctors'. She looked into the kind face of the blond, and swept her eyes over his form, clad in a soft looking tan jumper and jeans, she quickly discerned that he had nothing in common with the beasts that the agents employed. This man radiated both tenderness and compassion, and a sense of home and comfort…all things that Charlotte herself had never known. She decided to risk trusting him, if just for the moment.

She met his eyes and nodded. He alighted beside her on the sofa and took the dishtowel of ice from her. She let him look at her bump and take her pulse. He retrieved a small flashlight from his keys and tested her tracking as his companion remained frozen to the spot by the door. He hadn't moved since she'd awoken, and now had his pale hands pressed together just under his chin. He was silent, simply watching the interaction. But Charlotte could tell from his intense stare that he was scrutinizing every nuance of the scene in front of him.

"Don't worry, that's normal for him." The doctor murmured with a smile, ignoring the irritated huff from behind him. "I'm John, Watson."

Charlotte relaxed a little as he finished his examination. It had been a long time since she had been able to rest and the fatigue was creeping up on her, even as the pain in her temple began to slow.

"And your friend over there?" She asked when the other man didn't speak.

"Sherlock Holmes, my flat mate." He volunteered.

Charlotte flicked her gaze toward the pale face in the corner. "Sherlock?"

Those familiar eyes rolled. "Yes, Holmes. You've heard of me?"

"No." Charlotte smirked.

"You don't read the papers then?" He questioned, finally advancing a step closer to the sofa.

"Not yours."

"Accent is American, you just arrived then?" Another step.

"This morning." Charlotte felt something deep down inside stir. This man was used to intimidating people. She wasn't about to back down.

"That answers a few questions." Another step closer.

A loud buzzing sounded and the man unfolded his hands and reached into his pocket for a mobile phone. Whatever he saw on the screen made his expression change slightly, going from curiosity to irritation as he shoved the phone back away.

"What's going on Sherlock?" John asked, as he seemed to be done examining her.

"My brother..." Sherlock surprised them both by rapidly advancing until he was towering over where they sat, his eyes now blazing.

"Who _are _you?!"

&*(&(&(*&)(&*()&(*&()&(*&

Sherlock stood stiffly, glowering down at the girl and John, who now sat beside her on the sofa. His mind whirled with possibilities. She was an enigma and his mind grabbed onto the mystery with a hungry ferocity. Her puzzle was now infinitely more complicated and interesting with the addition of Mycroft's cryptic message. Obviously she wasn't a random stray, if his brother had taken notice. And not only had Mycroft noticed, he seemed interested…that spoke volumes.

Before he could launch into another inquiry the girl hissed slightly and eased the ice pack from her head. His eyes scanned the scrape and small bump that had risen up just outside of her hairline. John instantly switched his focus back to her care and rose to go and grab his first aid kit from the kitchen, and took her towel to change the ice.

Sherlock moved himself over to his chair but did not sit; instant he refolded his hands under his chin and watched. The girl met his stare without blinking, her damp hair was beginning to dry slightly in the warm room and the black curls framed those eyes that were so like his own that John had been stunned by it. Sherlock knew that similar eye colors could mean nothing, he'd spit out that statistic, but in truth he was slightly surprised by the fact that her blue eyes were so much like his. He'd often been told that his particular shade of blue was uncommon, but he normally scoffed it to the way he stared at people, assuming it was his deducing that made them uncomfortable and the color was a convenient excuse.

"People call you a freak about it too?" She murmured, the corner of her mouth pulling up slightly into a smirk.

Sherlock felt his skin prickle up as he realized that she was commenting on a thought he hadn't spoken. His mind raced, and he quickly deduced that she was just perceptive, like him, and had noticed him staring at that feature.

"I've heard that word before, yes." He murmured, cocking his head slightly to try and figure out more.

She was quiet for a moment, still meeting his stare dead on. Her expression was tired, yet curious as well. "Why did you do it?" She asked her voice softer now.

"Do what?"

"Take me in."

"You were hurt."

"Yes, but wouldn't most people have called for help? Not necessarily taken in a stranger."

"I'm not most people." Sherlock replied, and then continued with a quick excuse. "Plus, John is a doctor."

She bristled at the title, something he'd seen her do when John used the same word. He'd been right about the fear of hospitals then.

"Why did you try to run?" Sherlock moved his hands from his chin to fold his arms over his chest.

She didn't answer at first, and then leaned back slightly against the sofa, pulling her knees up to wrap her arms around them. The pose was somewhat childlike as she leaned her chin on her knees and looked toward the fireplace where the flames crackled brightly. Her gaze took on a faraway look for a moment as she spoke.

"Your coat…I thought you were one of them."

Sherlock curiosity peaked; he risked a step toward her. "Them?"

She turned her face to look at him, her eyes pinning him to the spot with the weary haunted look they now wore. "The men who have been chasing me for the last 14 years."

"Here now, will you let me clean that for you…and then here's something that might make it feel a bit better." John returned to the room with a glass of water and some medicine for the ache.

Sherlock grumbled as his line of questioning was halted. He knew that it was worthless to try to keep grilling her until John had finished. He finally allowed himself to flop into his chair and just watched as his mind raced with guesses and possibilities.

Charlotte eyed John's offering before gingerly taking it.

"If you want to see the bottle itself, I'll bring it. It's just a painkiller." He offered.

She looked into his face for a moment before shaking her head, and swallowing the pill with a gulp of water. As she felt the cool water go down, she was reminded of the fact that she hadn't eaten all day and her stomach gurgled noisily. She laughed softly in apology.

John sat beside her again and smiled. "Hungry?"

"A little."

"We can fix that as well, can't we Sherlock?" John glanced at the pale man who was watching them again with that scrutinizing look. He rolled his eyes and opened the first aid kid. "That is a yes. Now can I?" He gestured at the wound.

Charlotte nodded and moved one hand to hold back her curls so John could clean and place a band aid over the area. His touch was extremely gently and she felt some more tension ebb from her. The sense of home in their flat was so inviting, between the fire and the doctor's kind tending, Charlotte began to wonder if she was dreaming. She was never allowed to relax, or experience peace of this sort. Normally any rest or downtime she managed to steal was alone in a hotel room somewhere, with nothing but the television for company.

"There now, that's better. I'd still feel better if you let me bring you over to the hospital for some tests to make sure…."

"No!" Charlotte's sudden exclamation made both men snap their heads in her direction. It also caused her head to throb hard once more, and she winced. John gingerly handed her the fresh towel of ice he'd brought over, his wary expression touching her.

"I'm sorry….I just…I can't go there." She let him place the towel against her head again, and looked up to meet that dark blue concern in his eyes. "I know it sounds crazy, but if you care at all...don't make me."

John leaned in to gently push some of her curls out of the way so he could make sure the ice connected with its target. Her damp hair clung to his fingers as he looked into her face trying to understand.

"I told you!" Sherlock crowed loudly.


	4. Puzzle Pieces

Greg Lestrade shuffled into his dark flat, not even bothering to flick on the lights. He hung his coat on the hook by the door and quickly made his way back to his room, instinctively moving around the few sparse bits of furniture he'd brought here with him during the move. He hated this damn place. It wasn't a bad flat, not too far from the Yard, and the rooms were large enough. It was the idea of the thing. This was the where he ended up, by himself after working his tail off for years trying to pretend that his marriage wasn't a failing dream.

He stumbled over some clothing he'd left on the floor in his bedroom and muttered under his breath a note about cleaning up in the morning. He drifted through the motions of cleaning himself up and changing into some softer clothes to sleep in. The bathroom light made him wince slightly after so much dark and he quickly finished up so he could extinguish it and drag himself into the bed. This was the only piece of furniture that he owned now that he actually liked. It was a large comfy beast of a thing, much too big for just one man, but he'd filled it a down comforter and a few pillows. Most nights the barricade of blankets and fluff helped dull the ache for a few hours.

He thought back to the cryptic text that Sherlock's elder brother had sent earlier. A few ideas flitted through his mind about what it could have meant, possibly a case that he was about to be handed, or maybe Sherlock had pissed off some of the wrong people again. _Lord knows he's done it enough times…_Greg chuckled, it had taken him years to consider the lanky detective an ally…but he had to laugh at times when he listened to the man bring anyone who challenged him to their knees with his vicious tongue and sharp wit. Even though sometimes those chuckles were hard won with mountains of paperwork to get the pale man out of the trouble he caused; Greg wouldn't trade them. Sherlock's help with cases was invaluable and he hated to admit it, but he'd grown fond of the man.

The arrival of John had helped things considerably, with the way the doctor had of reigning in Sherlock before he caused too much damage. It made crime scenes more palatable when he had a comrade in arms to eye roll along with him when Sherlock got too involved or worked up over his deductions. It also helped knowing that someone was watching out for his friend. Greg remembered many nights he'd had to lock him up overnight to know that he wasn't out looking for a fix. That memory brought about a sickening hunch that perhaps that was what Mycroft was alluding too in the text…perhaps a relapse concern?

_No._ Greg yawned and rolled onto his side, hugging one of the pillows into his chest and trying to embrace the exhaustion that blanketed his tired frame. John would have called him by now if that was a real concern. And Mycroft wouldn't have waited until morning to act either. Sherlock had been clean for quite a few years now as far as he knew. And with John living with him, there would be little chance for a relapse to slip by unnoticed.

_So what the hell did Mycroft Holmes need his help with then? _

_&^&*^(*&^&*^(&*^(&*^_

The silence that settled over the room was comfortable, despite the mystery that lingered in the air around the three of them. Sherlock remained where he'd fallen into his favorite chair, and John leaned back against the sofa, so that the arm that held the ice to the wound on her head was supported. The only sound really was the fire and the rain that still drummed against the windows. The whole scene would have seemed very quaint and homey, had it not been for the lump on her head, and the bizarre mystery of it all.

"Charlotte." She murmured into the silence, unwrapping her arms from her knees and relaxing a bit more. The painkiller John had given her was beginning to kick in and the ache in her head dulled slightly.

John looked curious at her omission. She offered a small smile.

"My name."

"Well obviously." Sherlock quipped from his chair, ignoring the glare his flat mate shot him. "Do you have a surname that accompanies it?"

Charlotte narrowed her eyes slightly as she met Sherlock's pointed stare with a stubbornness that rivaled his own. "Why don't you guess if you're so smart?"

Sherlock didn't blink. "I'd need more information first."

"Well you're not getting it."

"Then how about the name of those you're running from?"

"No."

"Difficult does not equal alluring."

"Good thing that's not my intention then."

"Are you two about finished?" John interrupted, looking between the scowls with a slightly amused and exasperated expression.

"No." Both voices answered in unison, neither even looking surprised at the coincidence.

There was another moment of silence before Charlotte's stomach let out a loud growl and set both her and John laughing. Sherlock kept his composure, refusing to laugh, but he did relax back into the chair.

"Well, I'd say you can battle it out once we've gotten some food in you." John removed the ice from Charlotte's head as it was starting to melt and soak through the towel again. He scanned his patch job and nodded before retreating into the kitchen to grab some of the take away menus that he kept in a drawer. You never knew when you'd be able to eat when Sherlock was on a case, and often take away was the only way to grab a bite, he'd acquired quite the collection of menus over the last few years.

When he returned he caught that Charlotte was shivering slightly and realized that her clothes were still quite damp. He chided himself for not thinking of that already and excused himself from the room to jog upstairs. He quickly rifled through his things for a pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt that he could offer. Wouldn't do to have the girl come down with pneumonia on top of her head injury, he thought to himself as he made his way back down.

Charlotte and Sherlock hadn't moved from where he'd left them, and John paused for a moment in the doorway. There was something that tugged at him about the girl, normally strangers or clients in their flat always felt like interlopers. There was always an uncomfortable tension in the air whenever they had company…and John's girlfriends especially had been unwelcome. But Charlotte's presence did not give off the same feeling and John pondered that. Something about her seemed to fit in their space, with them.

Trying to process, he glanced from her to Sherlock and back again. The similarities between them suddenly seemed more obvious as he observed them without their notice. Charlotte had relaxed into a sitting position, and her dark hair tumbled around her in loose curls…curls like Sherlock's hair might if it were longer. They were both so pale, with that ethereal complexion that would seem more at home on a vampire. And their eyes, he'd noticed that straight away, despite Sherlock's snappy reaction over his comment. John felt a shiver chase down his spine at the oddity of it. How on earth had Sherlock managed to stumble across a young woman with so many similarities?

"John, are you going to stand there and shout at us all evening or should we text Angelo's for an order?" Sherlock interrupted his musings.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your amateur deductions are practically screaming."

John sighed and moved toward Charlotte, extending his arms with the clothes. She looked at him curiously for a moment. "You're still cold."

"I had a bag," she began.

"Downstairs…drenched though. If John's aim is you being dry and warm, you'd best take his things instead." Sherlock interrupted.

Charlotte looked up to meet John's eyes as she took the things from him and unfolded herself to stand from the sofa. "Thank you."

John showed her to their bathroom then returned to the living room, surprised to see Sherlock already on the phone with Angelo. He spoke hurriedly, ordering both their favorites and an additional dish before hanging up and turning to face John.

"What?"

"You didn't even ask her what she wanted." John said the first thing that came to mind.

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't be ridiculous. Between yours, mine, and the third I added …she's bound to like one of them."

It was strange, just how easily it came with them, Charlotte mused as she paused a moment in the bathroom. She'd been on the run for so long now that companionship had been all but forgotten. And it had been years since she spent more than an hour in another's' presence. It was safer that way; she tried to tell herself constantly. The less time she spent with people, the less they would remember about her. She told herself it was for their own protection as well as hers. But she missed it. Her chest constricted gently as she flashed back to so many lonely nights in empty rooms. It had been a long time since she'd even had the comfort of a human touch. That had been part of the reason she'd consented to let John tend to her. Feeling him move her hair, and even placing the ice pack on her head…it had been the closest she'd been to someone in months.

She heard the two men arguing out in the flat, something about food ordering. She smiled a little, it was obvious the two were very close; close enough to bicker in that familiar way. She'd already observed the basis of their dynamic a bit. Sherlock was the loose cannon, the wild and unpredictable one while John was the grounding force. He was the brains and the flash, while John was the heart and the balance…two interlocking pieces. That brought up another thought, _Will I ever find mine?_

She shivered slightly and brought herself out of her head and back to the task at hand. She stripped out of her wet clothes and into the comfortable dry ones that John had given her. The pants were still a bit too long and both they and the shirt hung loosely on her small frame. She glanced in the mirror, seeing just how pale she looked now, and the mess that her curls were drying into. She tried to comb her fingers through them to settle it a bit, trying to tame the mane that she'd let grow out.

Her eyes fluttered down to the silver line across her neck. The baggy neckline of John's shirt made it quite visible now and she knew that Sherlock wouldn't miss it when he next looked closely. She tried to think of a quick lie, so she'd have one on hand. She mentally sorted through her collection of explanations that she kept in her mind for questions that she encountered…but a deep seated feeling tugged at her.

_I don't want to lie to him….to either of them._

Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment a sighed. She'd only known the two men an hour or so….but they were the first people she'd ever wanted to know the truth. _Maybe they'd be able to help._

_$%$^%$%^$%^$%^$^%$_

_.,_

"You all right in there?" John's voice called through the door.

"Fine, thanks" She tried to compose herself a bit before returning to the room to face them.

Both faces turned to stare as she joined them, Sherlock still studying her, and John observing with a smile.

"Feel better?" He asked.

"Much."

"Certainly look better on you than me." John said warmly, motioning at the clothing.

"Except for the fact that they are too large for her in every possible way." Sherlock grumbled.

Charlotte laughed slightly at John's scowl.

"Food should be here shortly. Want me get those things dried for you?" John changed the subject, and came to take the wet things from her hands.

"Yes, thank you."

"I'll just go toss these in the dryer." John disappeared back into the hallway beyond their kitchen, leaving Charlotte alone with Sherlock.

"So I'm captive then?" She ventured.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "A common occurrence for you I'm guessing?"

Charlotte stood her ground, placing her hands on her hips to signal that she was not about to let him win so easily. "I was never arrested if that's what you're asking."

"But you're familiar with being held prisoner." Sherlock countered, stepping toward her so they faced each other in front of the fire. His height and hers made for an almost comical face off. She appeared younger and smaller compared to him, though she doubted their ages were far apart.

"True." She only offered the one word and she thought to use her skill on him, but knew that would be cheating in this battle of wits and wills. Plus she didn't want to scare them too badly, and she'd already slipped up on that earlier.

"I don't doubt it. But you've decided to trust us for whatever reason….you're not even sure yourself and I haven't figured it out yet either, except that you're not used to being around people…especially not ones that show kindness or concern for your well being."

Charlotte nodded slightly, moving her hands from hips to fidget with the hem of the shirt. "You're good, aren't you?"

"John conveys that fact to me quite often." Sherlock smirked slightly, and Charlotte had to chuckle softly as she assumed that was the extent of him displaying humor.

"You and him often make a habit of taking in strays?" She asked.

"Only those who present a puzzle worth solving."

"So I'm a game then?"

"Possibly. But since you've got no place to go, you may as well stay a bit. I doubt John will let you leave until that bump goes down anyway." Sherlock tilted his head slightly as he scanned her face once more, this time his gaze dropping to her neck and instantly fixing on the obvious scar across her throat.

Charlotte saw his focus change as he stepped toward her again, his hand reaching out almost unconsciously. She forced herself not to flinch, but he stopped short of touching her anyway.

"May I?"

Charlotte stared at him curiously, surprised that he asked permission. He seemed the type to act first and apologize later, if he apologized at all. She saw only interest in his eyes, no malice, and she tipped her chin up slightly in surrender.

Sherlock's touch was feather light as he pushed her curls over her shoulder and traced the puckered line across her jugular, and then slowly removed his hand.

"Now that is interesting…." He murmured, obviously pleased as her mystery deepened. She could practically hear his mind whirring happily over the new puzzle piece.

Sherlock stepped back now, his hands on his hips, mirroring Charlotte's own pose as he spoke again, the two sets of blue eyes meeting as he laid it out. John's footsteps could be heard as he reentered the room in time to be drawn into Sherlock's verbal deduction.

"Imprisonment, years of being followed or chased, no criminal record if you're to be believed, phobic of medical personnel and establishments, men in black coats, pale skin, American Accent, not used to being touched, and at least one rather violent attempt on your life in recent years…..**_Who are you?_**"

The room was silent except for the sound of the fire and the rain.

Then another voice caused all three of them to turn in surprise.

"I think I can answer that."


	5. Mycroft's Tale

**AUTHORS NOTE: **

**I hope you are enjoying this story. Please leave reviews. I love seeing the alerts in my email. I struggled a bit over this chapter as it was mostly exposition, but there is quite a bit of action coming up. In the next chapter ...Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade react to the fact that another Holmes is suddenly in their midst.**

"Mycroft!?" Sherlock all but shouted in irritation, just as John sputtered out "What are you doing here?"

Charlotte's eyes widened at the sight of the impeccably dressed older man in the flat's doorway. Her pulse raced in fear and she instinctively stepped backward, closer to Sherlock and John.

Mycroft entered the room, leaning on his ever present umbrella as he regarded the three of them, doing his best to keep his face emotionless. Normally it wasn't a challenge but in this moment, staring at the girl he'd only vaguely remembered in hazy dream…he felt a plethora of feelings swarming his brain, addling his normally organized thoughts. He fidgeted with the umbrella, it was his cover for the nervous habit that he'd had since childhood. He'd always been a fidget, his pale hands giving away his thoughts as he twirled pens, fiddled with cufflinks, whatever. As an adult he'd learned to hold a larger item to keep his hands busy, it masked the impulse quite well, and didn't betray his thoughts so much. But now, as he watched them, his hands fingers toyed with the handle, his grip flexing then relaxing as he tried to decide the best explanation.

His eyes lingered upon Charlotte, the pale blue flickering with recognition as he drank in her face. Charlotte softly stepped back further until her position put her just behind John's shoulder. He sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor, the empty feeling in his chest throbbing for just a moment. Her behavior clearly stated that the information in her file was barely a glimpse of what they'd put her through. He'd been searching for her, had several underlings doing research and looking... for over 10 years now, ever since he'd discovered the possibility of her existence. Now here she was….he'd finally found her, and she was terrified of him.

"I know why you think I'm here…But you're wrong. I'm not going to harm you love." Mycroft stated each word slowly and carefully, on the last he raised his gaze to lock with hers. Her eyes were large with concern, but he did not miss that they shared the same shade of blue as Sherlock. Seeing her in the flesh, it was undeniable. Even if he'd thought to doubt it after seeing the tapes, after reading the file….even as much as he didn't want to believe, hating sentiment as he did…her face slammed the truth home.

"Who are you?" Charlotte did not move away from her post by John, and Mycroft could already sense that in the small time she'd been here she'd developed a trust with his brother and the doctor. He flicked his gaze over the two men and smirked slightly, thinking that perhaps that might ease the burden of what he was about to divulge.

"This is Mycroft Holmes." John turned to look over his shoulder, and took in the way that Charlotte's form had tensed up. "Sherlock's older brother."

Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible before stepping toward his flat mate. The position put him close to Charlotte as well, the three of them facing off with Mycroft. The tension in the flat was suddenly thick as all of them sensed that something was about to happen, that whatever Mycroft knew was going to rock all of them.

Mycroft hesitated a moment before slowly removing his overcoat and hanging it on the rack with his umbrella. Sherlock and John both watched his movement with furrowed brows, Mycroft didn't often linger.

"Please relax all of you….this is going to be a rather long explanation I'm afraid."

"What are you on about?!" Sherlock demanded, squaring his shoulders as he watched Mycroft move to alight on his chair. "What on earth could a misplaced American woman have to do with the _British Government_ at this time of night?"

Mycroft winced as he heard the exact wrong choice of words flow from his impudent sibling. His eyes immediately flew to the girl who hadn't missed them, her entire form radiating terror as she stumbled back away from all of them. Her back bumped the kitchen table, rattling the beakers that Sherlock had left out from his latest experiment.

"What? Charlotte!" John moved fast before she could dart away, and caught her wrist in a gentle but firm grip. "It's all right." He tried to soothe, but he could feel her trembling under his touch, her eyes still wide and fixed on Mycroft. Even as he squeezed her hand, he hoped for reassurance, he watched as her irises began to shine with tears.

"Please…." She whispered, the words tumbling out quiet and fast. "…please don't send me back there."

Sherlock just stared at the scene, his face a mask of confusion as he tried to process. He watched as Mycroft quickly unfolded himself from the chair and strode over to where John had wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding the girl close. She did not attempt to run again, but the shaking gained force and she dropped her gaze as Mycroft came to a stop in front of her.

There was silence for a moment, but then Mycroft reached a hand out lift the girls chin so he could see her face, the tears still glistening but refusing to actually fall. He leaned down to look directly into her eyes and in a voice that had more tenderness than John had thought the man possessed he spoke the next words very slowly.

"I do know who you are, more than you do yourself, Charlotte. But I assure you that I am not here to harm you. And I give you my word…. I will use all of my power to assure that no one ever does so again."

Charlotte drew in a trembling breath as she concentrated on pushing through her fear to use her gift. She needed it in this moment more than the headache it would bring. And as the elegant older man touched her face she quickly tuned out the frantic pace of Sherlock's deductions, and John's calming concern to listen to the new voice in her head.

The words he'd spoken aloud echoed in his mind. He had meant all of them, there was no hidden agenda behind his promise, only pure intention. Then as she searched his eyes, his thoughts spoke again. _Forgive me child….if I'd only known sooner. _His words were thought directly to her, as if he'd spoken. Charlotte gasped as she watched him nod slightly, as if he was perfectly aware that she could hear this thought.

He stepped away from her then and his thoughts swooped in another direction as he regarded his sibling for a moment then returned to the chair. She felt her tremors begin to subside a little and allowed her sense to drop as her head began to throb again. John kept his hold about her shoulders and guided her back to the sofa, noticing her grimace as the pain took hold once more.

"You're head acting up some more?"

Charlotte nodded as she sat, flickering her gaze back to Mycroft and Sherlock, who had finally abandoned the spot he'd been frozen in and began to pace by the fireplace. Mycroft sighed once more and rubbed his hand over his forehead.

"How did you know?" Charlotte asked quietly, the first time she'd spoken directly to him since he'd walked in.

"I've had operatives looking for you for sometime."

"I mean about my…." Charlotte's eyes darted over to Sherlock, then John, then back to Mycroft. ", about what I can do."

"Your pursuers kept records regarding your ability…though their findings were largely hypothetical since you manage to escape their facility before all the testing could be completed." Mycroft spoke quickly, as the idea that he had been unable to help her during that time had pained him when he'd read over the reports. It was a good thing she had escaped, as some of the 'testing' that the agents had ordered bordered on torturous.

"To be fair, I'd been unsure that you even existed until then. It was only a vague memory I had to go on, and I was young at the time….I'd often chalked up the suspicion to childhood fantasy." Mycroft then glared up at where Sherlock still paced. "Oh take a seat would you!" He groused. Sherlock returned the glare but did deign to flop in John's chair.

"What are you babbling about Mycroft? Of course she exists, and what's that nonsense about childhood?"

"Surely you've noticed the similarities Sherlock! You, the great detective who sees everything?"

"She has the same color eyes? Oh we've been over that already. Like I told John, 1 in six humans are born with blue eyes Mycroft…surely you haven't forgotten that fact, or maybe you are getting slower…"

"I have not!" Mycroft snapped suddenly, reaching his limit of Sherlock's verbal lashing.

"Well then stop dancing around it and tell us what you know! Who is she? And what about _her_ is so interesting that it brought you here in the middle of the night in a storm?"

Mycroft took a deep breath and turned his gaze from his brother to where Charlotte still sat beside John, her arms wrapped around her middle as she stared in him in wonder.

"Her name is Charlotte Emery, but that was the one given to her when she was a year old by her adoptive parents in California." Mycroft paused once to let the effect of his next words serve their purpose.

"But she was born Charlotte Arabella _**Holmes**_.

$%$$%#%#%$#

"What?!" Sherlock's voice choked on the word as he glanced rapidly between the girl and his brother's locked gazes. What little color Charlotte had quickly drained, turning her complexion a sickly white. John flicked his eyes from Sherlock to Mycroft, then back to Charlotte, his brow furrowing. The girl looked like she was about to faint.

"You mean…she's…" John sputtered, trying to put it all together.

"Yes." Mycroft stated, looked from one face to the next, finally ending on his brother's shocked expression.

Mycroft reached to pull a file from the briefcase that he'd brought in. Quickly he retrieved a copy of a document and passed it to Sherlock to review. He glanced over to see that Charlotte was still frozen beside John, her color stark white. His brow furrowed as he flicked a gaze at the doctor beside her.

"See that she doesn't faint….this is important and I do hate repeating myself."

John sighed and rubbed a hand absentmindedly over her back, hoping the touch would be of some comfort. She'd seemed to get over her aversion to his closeness in the time she'd been in the flat, almost now the opposite as she remained still despite the fact that their bodies were pressed together from hip to shoulder. She still felt cool to his touch, even through the dry clothing and the soft curls of her hair tickled the skin of his hand. There was something so familiar about her presence that John was only vaguely shocked at Mycroft's confession that she was a relation of theirs. _A cousin, perhaps?_

Sherlock scanned the document then he began to read it aloud a line.

"Home birth record for a Victoria Elizabeth Holmes 1:17am, January the 6th, 1980. It shows she gave birth to a male child…." Sherlock stopped for a moment to glare at his brother. "I know all this….what is the point Mycroft?!"

Mycroft smirked. "Yes, that is the copy that Father was given when he returned to the Manor the next morning from his trip. I discovered about 10 years ago however that it is not entirely accurate."

He reached for a second document and handed it Sherlock for comparison.

"You'll find that THIS record is the one that was done **_first_**. It is far more accurate."

Sherlock's voice quickly rambled out the new data. "Home birth record for a Victoria Elizabeth Holmes, 1:17am, January the 6th, 1980….successfully gave birth to _**….twins.**_" Sherlock's voice broke at the last word and his head snapped up to stare at Charlotte.

Both sets of blue eyes regarded each other with similar expressions of shock and horror.

John's mouth dropped open, only Mycroft seemed unaffected. He continued where his brother had left off. "I suppose I should start with that night, since I was the only one present to remember it."

Mycroft folded his hands under his chin in proper Holmes fashion as he began to narrate, paying no heed to the tension in the room, and the fact that he had three sets of faces gaping at him like a school of codfish.

"I was only seven years old, but I remember the noise. Father was in London for business and was not due to return until the following day. The household staff called for the local doctor when it was apparent that Mother's labor had begun. The doctor came quickly, and the commotion in the manor intrigued me. I remember the screaming that echoed through the halls, and the flustered way the staff scurried about. The doctor had brought two nurses along with him to assist, and I was shuffled away to my rooms. I awoke in the middle of the night to find the house quieter, but still quite buzzing with activity. I remember going to see about Mother. In her suite of rooms the doors were open and she was asleep. There was a great caterwauling going on in the adjoining nursery…that would have been you Sherlock, noisy about your opinions even at birth." Mycroft smirked and lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock's grimace.

"The next part haunted me for years later. I remember stretching up to look into the bassinet to see what that ruckus was about. You were there, hollering your fool head off of course…but there was another infant beside you, one that I liked a great deal more because it was quiet." Mycroft said gently, his eyes moving slowly to seek Charlotte's this time.

Something about those eyes brought the hazy memory into clear focus and as she watched him, she inclined her head slightly, her brow furrowing in concentration. He could almost feel her presence in his mind and it both felt strange and familiar at once. He'd read the reports about her supposed mental abilities and had scoffed at some of it, but now as he felt her presence even more he had cause to wonder. He and Sherlock had been gifted with superior intellect and logic skills, at the expense of social skills even. Perhaps Charlotte's gift was mental as well, but just of a different sort.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will his defenses down a bit. The memory played across his mind, sweeping him back in time. He saw himself as a child, messy auburn hair falling in his eyes, tugging at the neck of the navy plaid pajama set that his nanny had buttoned all the way to the top despite his protests. He heard the crying, the sound of a newborn infant squalling at full volume. He'd never known such a tiny thing could be so loud. Peeking through the small crack of light in his parents' doorway he'd glimpsed his Mother sleeping in the immense bed, a doctor in the chair nearby. But it was the immense noise that interested him more and he quickly scurried to the next doorway and into the nursery.

A light was on this room as well, but a soft one and he recalled shoving his bangs away from his eyes as he looked into the frilly bassinet. He saw them clearly in his mind now…Sherlock with his shock of black hair, fists waving and his face beet red from crying. They were so tiny, one dressed in pink, the other in blue...and another second of memory returned to him that he'd not recalled before. He saw himself reach in to touch the other baby, the quiet one that wasn't screaming its head off. The other baby stared back at him with wide blue gray eyes, her tiny hand closing around his finger and holding tightly.

This baby had a wisp of black hair as well, not quite as thick and a smaller nose that perched above a cherub shaped mouth. The baby regarded him quietly, her grip tight. Mycroft remembered the awe at suddenly having two baby siblings to think about…he'd been excited about becoming a big brother, eager to teach the new child all the things he knew. Finally he wouldn't be the youngest, the only child in the manor. Oh yes, he'd like this…teaching them how to steal cookies from the kitchen, and where Father kept his secret stash of chocolates in the library.

Then he'd heard the footsteps, and recalled scrambling into the nearby closet, pulling himself behind the garment bags that were stored there. The scent of mothballs stung his nose and he heard the adults outside, a female voice trying to comfort the squalling infant as they left once more.

"Mycroft, you okay?" John's voice cut in and the memory faded out. Mycroft inhaled deeply and opened his eyes to see Charlotte sagging slightly against the doctor. Her face was still plastered with shock but not quite as tense. He could sense that she'd watched that memory along with him, that something about her ability had helped to clarify it. He tried to offer her a small smile.

"I only saw you both for a moment before I heard someone coming and hid. I hid there for a moment and heard voices, but couldn't make out what they said. They took you both from the room and I quickly escaped back to my quarters. In the morning when I awoke, I was told only that I had a younger brother."

The room was quiet as they all processed the information. Sherlock was of course the first to speak.

"You never thought to tell me about this?!" He raged.

Mycroft sighed. "I was informed from the first full day of your life that I had imagined the entire thing. I was quite young, and there was never any evidence of the truth for me to come across. Mother and Father hadn't been told they were expecting twins, and no one took the word of a seven year old seriously enough to investigate."

Sherlock was out of his chair and returned to his pacing, his steps echoing through the flat as Mycroft turned his attention back to Charlotte who was still watching him with rapt attention.

"It was not until 10 years ago that I managed to come across the information that I had not imagined the entire thing. Apparently the doctor who delivered you had a fit of conscience in his old age and admitted to the part he played in the abduction. The man was dying and apparently keen to clear his conscience. If he had not retained that initial copy of your birth record, I may never have known." Mycroft went on to explain about how the doctor had fallen asleep in a chair at some point during the night, in between tending to Mrs. Holmes and when he awakened one of his nurses was gone as well as the female child. The physician, knowing how a powerful family could ruin his practice and possibly get him imprisoned for negligence devised the scheme of altering the birth record and buying the other nurses' silence.

None of the staff had actually seen both infants together due to the late hour of their birth and the commotion, so the idea had been decided to tell the Holmes family and staff that only one baby had been delivered. The doctor later would claim that he did search for the nurse, but she had fled from the area.

"To America." Charlotte breathed the words softly. John jumped slightly, as it had been the first time she'd spoken since Mycroft had began.

"Yes, once I discovered that you had existed I began to try and track you. But it appears that whoever abducted you abandoned you at a year old to the welfare system in the United States. I followed your records through various foster homes and then through your adoption."

"They kept my name?"

"Apparently when you were abandoned, it was the only information on you...a note that stated your age and first name only."

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock suddenly bellowed, coming to stand at full alert before his brother, flat mate, and Charlotte. His eyes were wide and his form tense. All of them stared at him in silence for a moment before John unwrapped his arm from Charlotte and slowly rose to his feet.

"Sherlock…." He whispered softly, reaching a hand out toward the man.

"No! You….you knew about her for 10 years? You never thought to tell me for 10 bloody years Mycroft?!"

Mycroft sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I had no way of knowing where she was, or if she'd even lived to adulthood at the time I discovered all of that. Her records were sealed after her adoption. It took some time to pick up her current trail."

"You should have told me!" Sherlock growled, allowing John to grab his forearm but not changing his focus from his brother. "I could have gone there…I could have found her sooner."

Mycroft glared now, clearly coming to the end of his tolerance. "Oh you could have? 10 years ago Sherlock I was rather busy fishing you out of cocaine induced stupors, I doubt you would have been inclined to believe me."

Sherlock's eyes flashed then, and for a split second John flinched thinking that a fight was about to break out in their flat. He felt the muscles of Sherlock's forearm tense under his touch, the detectives' entire body was rigid. So many reactions and emotions coiled there….John could only imagine after what they'd just heard.

"Don't." Charlotte's voice suddenly piped up. She struggled to stand up from the sofa and John was torn between wanting to help her and not wanting to let go of Sherlock's arm. Mycroft moved instead, saving him the decision. He reached a pale hand to help her up and John was surprised that Charlotte didn't shrink from his touch this time.

"Sherlock…" Her pleading tone reached through Sherlock's rage and he relaxed slightly. Sherlock reluctantly raised his gaze to see her staring at him, with the same eyes. Mycrofts' story fit with all the things he'd deduced thus far. There were still a million questions he wanted to ask, and the larger parts of her mystery remained. But the similarities he saw in her face…her eyes and hair like his; as he stared other ones manifested as well. Her hands were like Mycroft's, long palms and shorter fingers, and her nose was reminiscent of their mother. It would take a DNA test to be sure, though he wasn't sure he could convince her to do one, but the traits were there plain as day.

"Twins separated at birth. Holy Mary…." John murmured, letting go of his flat mate as the tension slowly ebbed from the room. He glanced between the three of them; he'd thought he had his hands full with the bickering brothers, now there was a sister to add into the fray. And from what he'd seen of her already, her banter with Sherlock…she was cut from the same fabric as her brothers.

But John suddenly put together some of the things Charlotte had told them, what Sherlock had deduced…_about being chased, hunted, her fear of the hospital, doctors, Mycroft's mention of agents, her being studied_….. John turned to look at her and found her watching him in return. She nodded slowly as if she could hear his thoughts. She lifted her chin to display the scar he'd briefly noticed before. Sherlock didn't flinch, but Mycroft let out a soft hiss as he saw it as well.

"We're all in for it now, aren't we?"


	6. In all the world

**AUTHORS NOTE: This chapter is not particularly what I had envisioned, but the scene in my head somehow became this. I do not have a beta reader, but I do love reviews. The pace of this story will pick up, I am aware it has been somewhat slow, but there were some basic things to set into place before bringing Charlotte's pursuers into the picture. Please review!**

A buzzer ring suddenly rang through the flat, shattering the silence. It took a moment for Sherlock to respond.

"That would be the takeaway."

"Oh, of course, right." John nodded and ran downstairs to grab the order from Angelo's delivery boy, who steadfastly refused the wad of money that John pulled from his pocket with a laugh.

When he returned to the flat, he found Mycroft and Sherlock deep in bickering conversation, with Charlotte standing slightly apart, her arms around her middle as she watched the two men with a curious expression. He moved toward the kitchen with the bags and began pulling things from them. As he separated the containers and tried to mentally remember if they had any clean dishes, he felt Charlotte's presence sidle up beside him.

"It smells wonderful." Charlotte moved to help, gently organizing some of the beakers and papers that littered the kitchen table so John had room to arrange.

"Yes, I hope you like what he ordered you. He should have asked."

"I'm starving. Last meal I had was on the plane and it was awful." Charlotte looked toward the men who still were bickering at one another, speaking quite quickly and oblivious to the activity in the kitchen.

"They always at each other like that?" She asked quietly.

John chuckled gently and looked at her conspiratorially. "You mean the childish feud? Yes, I'm afraid so. The first day I met them Mycroft referred to himself as Sherlock's arch enemy."

Charlotte laughed then softly, the sound bubbly and warm as a genuine smile brightened her face. John found himself drawn in and laughed as well, until their mirth caught the attention of both Holmes brothers.

"What is so bloody funny?" Sherlock growled, causing both Charlotte and John to turn back toward them.

"I believe it is at our expense." Mycroft murmured, moving towards the coat rack as if he made to leave. He hesitated though before reaching for his overcoat as if he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to be gone or stay.

"Wait." Charlotte spoke up, moving out of the kitchen. Mycroft paused to look down at her as she approached him. She faltered for words as she searched his cold expression. Charlotte got the sense that he was used to masking all of his thoughts and emotions to the point where it happened without his realizing. She'd been in his mind for a moment, seeing that memory and had felt the warmth he'd had towards her as an infant, even if only for a moment.

"Don't go."

Mycroft was quiet, unable to form an answer for a moment as Charlotte reached out to take a hold of his suit arm gently. "I have so many questions…I need to know what you discovered about me, them, about all of this." Her other hand flitted over her throat scar and Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Who else knows?"

"The operatives I had collecting information on you are paid quite highly for their discretion and I doubt that the American organization would have any way of knowing about our involvement."

Charlotte didn't let go of his jacket cuff. "You know…but you don't understand what they…." She swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat, willing the memories of callous doctors and tests back into the dark recesses of her mind. "…they won't stop just because I came here. I may have eluded them for the time being, but they will come, they always do. I need to know." Her voice broke slightly as she struggled to keep her composure under Mycroft's unblinking gaze.

"You are safe here Charlotte, I will do whatever I can to assure that. I have quite a few resources at my disposal, and despite his lack of manners…I doubt Sherlock, or his doctor, would allow any harm to come to you either."

His little speech was comforting and as she flexed her consciousness to read his intentions she found that he was dead serious. It was real, everything he'd said…his memory, the information about how she'd been lost to them, all of it. She found herself with the sudden urge to hug the tall cold man before her. She'd been so alone, for so long, always believing that friends or family bonds would never be hers to enjoy.

"I will return tomorrow, I promise. For tonight you will stay here and tomorrow we shall discuss other arrangements for your protection." Mycroft's expression relaxed as he allowed a slight smile to lighten his features.

"I am glad that you are here." He finished, as Charlotte released his sleeve and nodded.

"So am I."

Mycroft reached then for his umbrella and coat, before pausing once to nod at Sherlock and John. "Good evening then. I'll be in touch, Sherlock."

*JKJKJKJ*&^%

John couldn't stifle the grin as he watched Charlotte dig into her pasta, the sheer bliss of the food obvious on her face as she moaned and closed her eyes. Sherlock froze with his fork halfway to his mouth as they both watched her.

"Good?" John chuckled.

Charlotte opened her eyes and her cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. "Yes, sorry. I told you, I haven't eaten since the plane…and this is amazing." She twirled more of her pasta around her fork before placing it in her mouth and looked up to see Sherlock still staring at her with a blank expression.

"And what's your damage?"

"I beg your pardon? My _damage_?" Sherlock squared his shoulders a bit.

Charlotte laughed softly. "I mean why are you staring at me like that? Never seen a woman eat before?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I was merely wondering if Mycroft could have been mistaken."

John coughed slightly, injecting himself back into the conversation. "Sherlock, are you serious? Mycroft is as rarely wrong about his findings as you are. Not too mention that the two of you obviously share some of the same genetic material. She looks more like you than Mycroft does!"

Charlotte giggled and continued eating, her eyes flicking back up waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

"Yes, I don't doubt it…although I can't be absolutely sure without a DNA profile test. I will secede the fact that there are physical similarities. But just look at her John! She's eating_, willingly_. And she asked _Mycroft to stay_; I'd never have done that." Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, looking all the part like a sulking child. John watched him with a dawning thought that made him grin down at his pasta.

"Oh now what?" Sherlock grumbled.

John shook his head with a chuckle before looking up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "You're pouting now because you believed all this time that you were alone in your oddness. You've grown up all these years thinking that you were an anomaly. And now you're faced with your twin sibling and you pouting over not being the only child you thought you were."

"Rubbish." Sherlock spat. "Besides, I never thought I was an only child…my meddling older brother has always assured that."

"There is a 7 year gap between you and Mycroft, and he was sent away to that posh boarding school when he was 8 wasn't he? As you were?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly as he stared at John. Charlotte was nearly forgotten in the moment as he realized that John not only listened to every detail that he'd told him about his life and childhood, but John cared enough to remember. Most people found themselves fed up with him and his deductions long before he would ever offer them information about himself. And they certainly never cared to remember it. It was one of those mysteries that Sherlock cherished about John, one of the reasons that John was the one other human on the planet that he didn't mind being close to. His heart thumped in agreement and he quickly tried to bury the feeling.

"Yes, that is correct."

"Most children with a much older sibling, especially one that is not physically present in their formative years still grow up feeling like an only child. And I'm sure that you did as well, prattling around Holmes Manor, blowing up experiments in the greenhouse and what not. You probably got it into your head that you were the only one like you in the world, hence the title on your blog and your 'created' career title." John continued, taking bites here and there but letting his words sink in.

"You're learning John." Sherlock mused aloud, barely mindful of the small smile that pulled at his mouth when he stared at John. The warm glow in his chest thawed his sulk a little as he tucked this memory into the room in his mind palace where he stored things that meant something to him. John understood him in such an unspoken way, and every now and then he showed it with a statement like the one he'd just made. Sherlock had spent so many years alone and feeling as if would never know that kind of understanding that it was comforting on many levels.

"I know the feeling." Charlotte said gently, reluctantly breaking the tender moment between the two. "I've been on my own for the last 10 years, and it's been awful to say the least. I've always thought that I was a bit of freak, because of ….." She hesitated then, not wanting to alarm the men yet with all of the details of her skill and her story. She'd hinted at it already this evening, and flat out demonstrated it to Mycroft, but then he'd already known. "…anyway, but it's rather lonely."

"Alone is safer, I'd always thought." Sherlock said, his statement sounding cold, if it weren't for the small catch in his baritone voice. He flicked a glance at John quickly.

"Although in recent years, I've often been proven wrong on that fact."

Charlotte didn't miss that John's ears turned pink as he shoveled in another mouthful of his dinner and tried his best to look unfazed at the comment.

&^%$#^*(

It was quite late by the time they cleaned up and Charlotte yawned as she sat back on the sofa. Mycroft had stated that she was to stay here and neither man had argued the fact, for which she'd been grateful. She felt safe here with them, and despite the awkwardness of being faced with the twin she'd never known she'd had…their flat was warm and comforting. This was their home and the place they were free to be themselves without the outside worlds' assumptions. She could see it in the mess that Sherlock left strewn about any available surface, and the way that John straightened all of it without real complaint.

She tried to take in all the details of the room to learn what she could about John and her_….brother_. She rolled that word around in her head. It had such a foreign feeling…her adoptive parents had been older and had been unable to have their own children. Even in her early years she'd never known siblings, and now she had two and one of them a twin. It was almost too much of a culture shock to wrap her brain around, especially with the dull headache she still was nursing. But as Sherlock flounced around the apartment, still smarting from the new information and trying to process it in his own way Charlotte watched him. She slowly slid down to rest her head on the faded union jack pillow as her eyes followed his movements. He fussed with objects then put them down as he talked to himself in whispers.

"Is it really so horrible?" She asked him when John was out of the room, having excused himself to go have a shower.

Sherlock stopped mid step and turned to look at her. "Specifically?"

"Having a sister? I wouldn't know as I didn't grow up with any." She yawned at the end of her sentence.

"I can't answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because neither did I. I grew up only with Mycroft for an older brother, and as John mentioned earlier, we were not in the same household often due to our schooling." Sherlock moved to sit in his chair as he continued; his pale fingers slowly moving into his thinking pose. "I'd never considered the possibility of having a second sibling, much less a female one. My only information has come from watching others with theirs. John has a sister that he's not fond of; he states they've always been strained but she also suffers from alcoholism so it's hard to tell the root of their estrangement."

"And you? What is the root of your issue with Mycroft?" Charlotte blinked slowly as she felt her fatigue settling in her bones.

Sherlock didn't answer for a long moment, looking lost in thought. Finally he exhaled a soft sigh. "Mycroft and I have been…at odds for many years. We had a falling out while I was at uni that damaged our relationship. Since then we continue to disagree on various matters."

"Such as?"

"His self appointed position of being my handler." Sherlock grimaced as the last word left his lips. Charlotte chuckled.

"You mean he keeps you from causing trouble?"

Sherlock found his smirk unable to stifle as he reached for his violin case beside the chair. "He attempts to, with only minor success."

"He's going to have his hands full with me then." Charlotte murmured, closing her eyes for just a moment.

"Yes, from your cryptic messages, that scar on your throat, and the fact that it took him 10 years to track you down, I can only imagine."

&*(&(*&(*&

*(*)(*()

John returned to the sitting room a bit later to a scene that was both familiar and different. Sherlock stood by the window, beginning to play a soft haunting piece of music on his violin, the bow slowly caressing the strings; while Charlotte slept on the sofa. John, dressed now in sleeping clothes, leaned against the doorframe and watched the scene for just a moment. The rain still pattered against the window where Sherlock stood, the light from the fire flickered over his dark curls and John sighed to himself as he glanced down at Charlotte; seeing those same curls pillowing her sleeping face. A thought resounded in his mind, spreading tight warmth through his chest.

_Now he had two Holmes to look after_. Though, only one of them held his heart in an iron grasp, whether or not the tall detective realized it. John had known for some time before the fall, though he'd been better at denying it back then. Once Sherlock had returned a year later and explained that whole mess, John had a much harder time hiding how he felt. Sherlock's lack of experience with emotion made it easier and more difficult at once, and they'd fallen into a comfortable coexistence with slightly more subtext to their movements than before.

Charlotte arrival raised a library of questions but it was clear from her fearful entrance into their lives that she needed him as much as Sherlock did, but in a quite different way. Charlotte needed caring for and protecting from whatever she had spent so much time running from. _What was it about the Holmes brood that seemed to attract so much trouble? _John wondered how Mycroft had somehow escaped that tendency, but then again his position afforded him both power and anonymity, two things which might have tempered that trait.

_Twins._ John mused as he flicked his gaze from the sleeping woman who shared her brother's physical trait of appearing much younger than her true age. Especially when asleep, Charlotte could have been mistaken for a girl of 18 if one had known better. The gauntness of her petite frame worried John slightly, she'd talked of living on the run for many years and it looked as though she'd not gotten enough food or sleep in some time. His solace with this twin was that she didn't appear to be as apt to fight him on those two matters like Sherlock was.

John pondered his reaction to Charlotte, if it was merely the Holmes genes that brought it on, or his nature to care for those in need. He'd always had a hell of a time as child, rescuing any stray kitten that crossed his path. His mother and sister had not always been pleased upon finding various new furred faces in their home and often had forced him to find other homes for them once John had nursed them back to health.

When Mycroft had stated his information, after John had gotten over worrying about Sherlock's reaction, he'd been faced with a strong brotherly affection himself. She wasn't his long lost sibling, but after all the time he'd spent with the Holmes brothers over the last few years, he felt quite like he'd earned his place among them. And Charlotte's past sounded quite dark, he figured she could use as many of them in her corner as possible.

John quietly grabbed an extra blanket from a closet and slowly draped it over the sleeping girl, smiling gently as he backed away. As he stood up and moved to stoke the fire, Sherlock's music faded out.

"You like her don't you?" Sherlock's voice sounded as his music ceased.

John turned curious eyes on his flat mate, surprised to see that Sherlock hadn't turned from the window, but his violin had lowered.

"Sherlock?"

"You're worried I'll mind. But I don't." Sherlock's words tumbled out fast but quiet and John quickly advanced toward where he stood.

"What are you on about?"

"From the moment I brought her in, I knew you would." Sherlock murmured, not turning to face where John stood just behind him.

John's chest constricted slightly. If Sherlock had been anyone else, John would have thought the tight tone in his voice would have been jealousy. But Sherlock and he had never named the feeling between as one that could be endangered.

"You git…. You knew I'd like her, but you didn't think as to why?"

"What?"

John tensed for a moment, knowing that his was probably the worst possible moment to have this conversation with Sherlock. But there was no way he was going to let another moment pass with Sherlock thinking that he was about to be replaced in his heart.

"I like her cause she's like you." John said softly, reaching out to gently grab Sherlock by the elbow and turn him from the window.

Sherlock moved with the touch, but turned his gaze toward where Charlotte slept, avoiding looking John in the eyes. "And she was wounded, and female, of course you would…" Sherlock mumbled, his words fast but unsure.

John was exhausted from the eventful evening, too tired to fight with himself any longer, especially as he saw the slightly wounded expression in Sherlock's eyes. All of his behavior of the night fell into place, his bickering with Charlotte, the over the top negativity with Mycroft, the pacing, all of it fell into place in Johns head. Sherlock was terrified not just of suddenly having a twin sister; he was upset that she would _replace him. _

As the realization washed over him, something deep inside John broke and like water rushing over a dam, suddenly all the words and actions he'd been holding deep down inside under lock and key flowed out of him. He found himself reaching to take the violin from Sherlock's hands. He placed it gingerly back in the case before turning to grab one of those pale hands.

"John?"

"Come with me, now." John commanded, pulling Sherlock away, flicking the lights off as he went, leaving them in darkness as he maneuvered his way back to his flat mate's bedroom.

Once inside he shut the door and let his hold on Sherlock's hand drop.

"John, I don't understand why ..." Sherlock began, his voice regaining a bit more of his normal edge, but John interrupted him

"Shut up Sherlock, for just a moment let me speak." John's words sounded harsh, but the slight break in his voice spoke volumes.

John pinched the bridge of his nose as he gathered his courage, knowing that the words that he longed to say, that had been burning a hole inside him for a long time could possibly blow apart the fragile illusion that they had created here in 221B. But then he heard it, Sherlock let out a small breath in the dark, a breath that hitched slightly in his throat, echoing that lost look he'd seen a moment ago in the man's eyes. The last gear clicked into place in John's soul. Sherlock needed to know, John needed him to know. Even it was the wrong time, and it was the worst possible time….but when had things ever been normal or easy for them?

"Sherlock, when I thought you had died…I came to your grave once and I told you something. I'm going to tell it to you now. I need you to promise that you won't interrupt."

"John you don't have to,"

"Promise me."

"Fine." Sherlock huffed slightly, with no real malice behind it. He moved away in the semi darkness to sit upon the edge of his bed, leaving John standing by a window.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero. But let me tell you this, you were the best man that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me you told me a lie." John paused for a moment. "I begged you not to be dead, Sherlock. I told you that I had been so alone, and that I owed you so much."

Sherlock rested his forehead in his hands. "I have apologized for that I thought."

"You promised."

Sherlock didn't finish, and John moved from the window drawing courage from deep within him. He stopped in front of his friend and did something he'd been longing to do from the moment Sherlock had returned to him. He reached out and stroked the dark curls lovingly. The soft hair clung to his fingers and he drew strength from the fact that Sherlock didn't recoil from his touch or push him away. The words came faster now, easier as his heart hammered in his chest.

"What I didn't tell you was that when you left I was empty again. And it hurt twice as much because before I hadn't known what I was missing. I'd never known that you could find someone that could fill every crack and gap in your soul and make you whole inside. I just thought that everyone was coping with their own unique wounds from their experience. But you, god Sherlock you closed every hole I'd carried around inside me. And when you left…when you forced me to watch you _die, I_ was left not with those small holes again, but one giant fucking gash in my chest."

Sherlock didn't speak, but leaned into John's touch with a low moan.

"When you came back, it took time but that wound healed. I know we don't say these things to each other, but maybe now we should. _Sherlock, you will never be replaced with me_. The girls I dated when I first moved in didn't move you, even when I dated while you were gone, none of them even held a candle to your light." John moved his hand to Sherlock's cheek to tilt the man's face upward so he could look at him as he finished. Sherlock did so, but his eyes were closed, his whole frame tense as if bracing himself.

"Look at me."

Sherlock complied, sucking in a sharp breath as their eyes met.

"I know you don't do sentiment, and I know that I may be nailing my own coffin here Sherlock, but let me tell you this. You are the most brilliant man and the deepest soul I've ever known. You are unique to me, Sherlock Holmes. You always will be because my foolish heart has been wrapped up in you since the moment we met; I was just too stupid to realize it. So know this, _no one ever can or will replace you with me_."

John let out a shuddering sigh as he let his hand drop from Sherlock's face, waiting for the rebuke he feared, waiting for Sherlock to shove him off, run from him, rattle off some brainy lecture on the dangers of sentiment, or worse of all for Sherlock to say nothing and just stare at him in confusion.

But none of those things happened, instead John suddenly found himself embraced so tightly he could barely draw in a breath. Sherlock had pulled him suddenly, nearly off his feet toward the bed and wrapped both long arms tightly around his middle, burying his face in the softness of his jumper. His hold was tight and desperate, John could feel those long fingered hands digging into the fabric at his back and he let his hands come back up to cradle the head against him, his hands stroking the soft hair.

Sherlock was mumbling something, his words muffled by his position and John felt a soft chuckle bubble up through his lungs. "What was that?"

Sherlock pulled back a bit so his voice could be heard, though this time the whispered phrase was in French, and John laughed once more. "In English please."

"_But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To you, I shall be unique in all the world_..." Sherlock pulled John down the bed beside him and all but wrapped himself around the smaller man, ducking his face into John's neck. The words lolled about in John's mind, settling down into his soul, echoing something he'd heard once before.

"Le Petit Prince, My French tutor made me read from it so often when I was young. I never quite did understand it." Sherlock spoke gently, his breath puffing against the sensitive skin along John's jaw.

"And now?" John asked, leaning his head against Sherlock's.

"I think I am starting to." Sherlock clutched at John again, the force becoming too much for John and he moved to lie back on the bed against Sherlock's pillows, pulling the lanky tall man along with him.

John closed his eyes, content to just lay there with the warm weight of Sherlock lying across his chest. The detective's frame relaxed slowly as John stroked his hair, his shoulders, down over his back with gentle touches. John let the emotions that had been so bottled up swirl over him as they lay in silence. He felt so much in that moment, relief, joy, concern, and happiness, all of it bubbled about inside him.

John listened as Sherlock's breathing started to even out, all of the tension completely drained from the man now as he cuddled closer to John's chest. John let his own eyes drift closed, feeling quite at peace despite the eventful evening. Just as he drifted away he heard Sherlock murmur something dreamily.

"_Of course, I love you,' the flower said to him.'If you were not aware of it, it was my fault."_


End file.
